


Stillborn

by Haus



Category: Deadman Wonderland
Genre: Amputees, Asphyxiation, F/M, M/M, Necrophilia, noncon, nonconsensual drug use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 08:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/809497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haus/pseuds/Haus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To be able to see the Carnage of two years prior, Genkaku is willing to break Nagi- and have as much fun as possible while he does it. If people purify themselves by detaching from the carnal, then Genkaku is going to drag his Owl through the depths of depravity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stillborn

When Nagi regains consciousness again, he finds himself sitting in a chair and staring off into a dark room he doesn’t recognize. 

Though, sitting isn’t the right word; he’s tied to this chair, and he can feel the beaded garlands wrapped around his torso and restricting him into the position he’s in now. The realization that he can hear someone else breathing near him makes his pupils dilate in desperation for light and flight, and makes his heartbeat quicken in uneasiness. His head swims with the sudden hormonal lurch, vertigo swirling from his eye sockets to his skull in motions that seem too disjointed to be under normal circumstances.

Did he lose too much blood after his battle with Hibana? Did he smack his head against the floor before passing out? The unrelenting dizziness and queasiness made him frantic. Feeling as if he were falling, the knuckles of his remaining hand curl around the edge of his seat with a vice strong enough to make them flush pale. Holding his breath soon becomes impossible, and he’s panting now with fear. The notion that if he relents his grip for a second, he’ll vibrate right out of his seat and smash his brains all over the floor consumes the strains of fragmented thought he can keep track of in this state.

The sudden laughter from in front of him is too sharp, and it sears his nerves- nearly overwhelms his thudding senses enough to make him go still.

“Morning, Owl.” That voice. And he feels helplessly woozy as a familiar pricking sensation sinks into his arm. “About time you woke up. How much did I feed you already?”

Nagi’s eyes finally adjust to the low light, and shift from focusing in unseeing pain at the spot right over Genkaku’s head, to the plush, purple carpet under him. Dripping needles litter the floor. 

“Ah, ah!” The other man tsks at him and reaches out from where he’s crouched to tilt Nagi’s chin back up to face him- probably taking his lowered head as a sign that he was blacking out again. “No answer for me?” 

Nagi struggles to whisper ‘four,’ and his torturer nods and grins encouragingly. “Now sit tight, there’s still more for you.” 

Guitar-calloused fingers grip his arm right above his elbow, firm yet light as he continues to empty syringe after syringe into his veins. Nagi feels hot and breathless, too weak to even put up a struggle or move away. His limbs are nearly paralyzed. 

He doesn’t want to look at Genkaku for more reasons than one, but the most significant right now being that the drugs were making the monk’s face disturbing and distorted- haphazard afterimages that tug the unsteady lenses of his own eyes. But, he feels too dizzy to look away; stuck and not very in control of his own faculties. The blue eyes boring into him, inches away, enthuse self-satisfaction. 

Genkaku looks genuinely...happy, his eyes softening at the corners as if to convey affection. As if the man thought that he was taking care of him, the indulgent smile on his face growing with every new needle pricking under his skin.

It makes Nagi want to jab his arm out and rip apart his jugular- and the sudden propensity for violence and degree of rage he feels, even in this state of stunted capability, takes him off guard.

“Do you really find death so horrible, Owl?” Genkaku drawls, slowly straightening up so that their heads are level. He inches closer and steadies himself with an unwelcome hand on the brunet’s thigh, groping him suggestively.  

Nagi glares at him from under his lashes, refusing to cooperate in whatever game Genkaku’s playing. He won’t be a part of it, and Nagi has already resigned himself to enduring whatever grotesque scenario the lunatic had planned.

Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t leave Nagi alone after his silence. The Undertaker’s eyes glint competitively, predatory like a vulture, and he nears closer still; his tobacco breath violates a shallow inhale, and Nagi wants to turn away and cough. But he can’t. There’s a smirking murderer in his face, and he’s caught in the headlights. 

“You know,” Genkaku continues with a curl of his lips, “death can be pleasurable, too. Death can be anything, _everything._ ” 

Nagi can’t help but grimace through his small, blooming fear. He was used to listening to the monk’s nonsensical tirades, but all the times before he was at least in a state to defend himself. Now, he feels as if the monk is finally going to kill him...so where’s the weapon?  

Nagi’s eyes give the other’s hands a cursory scan- gun? knife?- then to the floor for the guitar, when Genkaku lunges at him without warning.

The chair he’s sitting on teeters precariously and arms are around him, squishing him and disturbing him and mussing him, and Genkaku’s face rams itself between the hollows of his collarbone. Nagi feels panic coming now, goosebumps prickling the back of his neck and spanning over his forearms, making his hair stand on end.

Don’t look at him, don’t entertain him, don’t egg him on.

_“My Asura,”_ Genkaku moans, eyelids fixed shut in a display of devotion. Nagi stares down at him with horror, bleary eyes widening and bile rising in his throat. Genkaku’s eyes, their blue lurid and unhinged, open again quick enough to catch Nagi mouthing _get off_.

Genkaku’s laughing in sincere enjoyment, and his arms secure around him further to tighten their embrace. “Me and you, _super_ monk and demigod- I was meant to find you, wasn’t I Owl?”

“You’re insane,” Nagi hisses, futilely trying to put at least a little distance between them. The redhead raises his brows.

“So you really don’t remember?” And just as Nagi is about to inquire as to _what_ he’s not remembering, Genkaku’s entire demeanor shifts. He’s thoughtful now, which is twice as dangerous.

“Haha...how could you? Your fucking friends distracted you, and before that, your family. I got rid of them for you, but it seems that you keep attracting more unenlightened _nonbelievers_.” 

Them? He had only two in the world, and his child was safe outside these walls...he was sure of it. 

Nagi must have looked as if he wasn’t paying enough attention, because suddenly Genkaku reaches out and yanks at the prayer beads around his neck. Utilizing it like a leash. 

“No more distractions. No more forgetting. You’ll come back to me if I burn myself into your pretty little head. If we become one, yeah Owl?”

His own heartbeat is thudding in his ears, he’s afraid now, but Nagi gets the sense that whatever drug that was pumped through his bloodstream makes his distress harder to handle. This Undertaker doesn’t just want to kick him around, he wants to traumatize him. And while normally Nagi would be able to compartmentalize his emotions in a situation like this- after all that he’s endured at this man’s, this corrupt institution’s, hands, it was usually a given- his anxiety keeps rising. Promises of pain spark in the irises watching him, and dexterous fingers are loosening the loops of beads behind his back.  

“Oh, Owl...I’m going to christen you with depravity.”

... 

“Wh-”

Genkaku gives the rosary around Nagi’s neck a violent pull that sends him crashing down onto the floor- the teeth of his _geta_ that drag across the carpet make wayward needles roll off into varying directions and distances.  

He can’t _breathe_. And the monk knows very well he can’t breathe because he’s leering down at him and giving a taunting little tug from where he’s standing. The grinding of the wooden beads as they constrict around his neck bring on a whole new onslaught of pain as they slide rigidly against the polished metal of his collar.

His hand wants nothing more than to fly up to try and slacken the bonds strangling him, but it’s still reined snugly in place. The stump of his other arm lays useless at his side.

“S-stop.” Nagi chokes out, desperate as black edges into his vision. Genkaku ignores his plea and watches him struggle a bit more, taking in all the taut, tortured edges of his demon, until he lowers his hold on the leash to reach into the waist of his jeans where he withdraws one of the last things Nagi ever wanted to see ensnared in the man’s grip.

His left hand.

“What a great find, ain’t it?” Genkaku chirps, cheerfully turning the appendage in his hand for a brief inspection. “Not too worse for wear at all!” The limb had only been torn from his body a few hours ago, so it looked more or less the same if not for the slight pallor of its skin. 

Nagi felt horror shoot out from the very base of his stomach all the way up into his throat. “What are you...doing with that…?” 

He couldn’t tell if the trouble he was having swallowing was from the fact that his mouth suddenly went dry or because of the rosary pressing down uncomfortably on his Adam’s apple. 

“We’ll have to fix up that memory of yours, Owl. Didn’t you just hear me say that death can be pleasurable?” There was a pause, and a loaded smirk. “Well this hand is very much dead, so that means...?” He trailed off, looking down at Nagi as if he expected an answer. He couldn’t be implying what Nagi thought he was implying. 

His line of sight dipped lower with considerable trepidation, and he wondered why he was even surprised to see that Genkaku had an erection. How could he have believed that there would be any decency left in this hellhole, especially from the leader of the Undertakers. 

Nagi was wrenched by the neck again, forcing him to stumble forward painfully on his knees until he was close enough that his eyelashes brushed up against the material of Genkaku’s jeans. The redhead’s consequent laughter was like being doused with ice water. 

Genkaku’s hand lazily wandering downwards to unbutton and unzip his fly right next to Nagi’s face, amputated hand balanced in the crook of his elbow, made him rear his head back on reflex. The quickness of the act and how it tugged at the chokehold around his neck smote all the air in his lungs, making him sputter and cough ungracefully. Nagi doesn’t remember the man ever looking this amused before.

As Nagi tries to twist his head away, Genkaku scoffs and loops a remaining length of the rosary around his throat a few more times before pulling him back closer again. The deadman’s ability to breathe is now limited to shallowest of gasps, and he can feel red burning up his neck and onto his ears. He can feel his eyes watering and the tendons of his neck creaking in defiance. He can feel his face pressed into the other man’s crotch; its warmth parasitically transferring heat from the fabric to his skin. 

‘Don’t,’ ‘do,’ and ‘this’ are mouthed weakly right up against the area over Genkaku’s balls.

“There we go, Owl. Just keep still.” 

That’s all he _could_ do. Even if the beads restraining him weren’t infused with the Worm Eater, there still wouldn’t be enough blood left in his detached hand to do any actual damage.  

Nagi watches as Genkaku curls the fingers of his amputated hand around his dick and frees it out of his pants. The kneeling man shudders, feeling his stomach lurch forcefully in protest. His mantra of don’ts begin to quiet down around the same time the monk begins to make Nagi’s detached hand stroke the length of his cock, slowly, gradually working up a steady rhythm. The brunet could feel his cheeks burning with mortification and disgust. This couldn’t be happening.  

Nagi screwed his eyes shut- even as Genkaku tugged insistently at the leash again, which was enough to make his tears spill over from under his eyelids and leave wet tracks down his face. The head of Genkaku’s dick nudges his cheek roughly as the jerking motions start to pick up even more. 

“Please...” he gasps, fighting against the rosary’s vice. “Stop...it.”

Genkaku peers down at him, almost perplexed. Though mostly gloating and turned-on. “No, I don’t _really_ think you want it to stop.”

The strained look on Nagi’s innocent face makes his hips thrust forward again, slower, savoring each inch of dead flesh that rubbed over his erection. “Oh? Who’s hand is this after all?” 

“...mine, but-” 

“You’re doing this. And I know you can break out of these if you really tried. You’ve done so much _more_ before, haven’t you? Only one conclusion I can come to, Owl.”

Nagi shakes his head from side to side as much as he can in his position, agitating a headache in both of his temples. He couldn’t get out of these bonds, he really couldn’t. Even _standing_ , out of all things, was now an impossibility, so how could-

“ ** _Look at me._** ” And Genkaku chokes off his air again to make Nagi’s eyes startle open.

When his eyes glare upwards again, the Undertaker has a vicious smile ready to greet him. His face is flushed and sweaty and he looks like he’s having _the best fucking time of his life._ Nagi feels the cool flesh of his own left knuckles brush up against his upper lip and hears the wet, perturbing sound of precum being slicked by _his fingers_ all over Genkaku’s cock.  

He used to play the piano with that hand, before he was imprisoned here. He can still remember the sensation of the smooth keys underneath his fingertips, unwinding in the melody of his notes while his wife sat on the stool beside him, leaning her head on his shoulder. Even with something so simple, they had been in bliss.

Nagi wouldn’t be able to play like that ever again now, and the Sadness returns as if cued, settling like a miasma at the back of his mind. And with it, anger is never too far behind, spurred on by his humiliation. Nagi could feel his own subjugation as if it were squeezing his heart, bruising his organs in the same way that the prayer beads were no doubt bruising his neck. 

Genkaku groans, vocalizing the depths of his lust _just for Nagi to hear_ and licks his lips in a show of utter perversion, before the pace that he’s jacking off at becomes hurried and uneven. His erection is reangled close enough in front of of his eyes that they’re actually forced to unfocus for a few seconds. When his normal vision returns, Nagi wishes it hadn’t. He can see the veins in Genkaku’s cock, he can see how the inflamed head is dripping now onto his chin and scarf, staining the fabric.  

The monk growls and yanks Nagi’s head back hard enough for him to see fireflies. “I’m gonna-”

Genkaku’s body spasms, and a thick spurt of cum hits Nagi’s face, dribbling down the bridge of his nose, and his cheek, and into his ajar mouth. Another glob lands in his hair and drips onto his forehead.

The Undertaker coos languidly after this debauched baptism and brushes his sated cock over Nagi’s cheek, slicking himself in his own ejaculate. He then uses Nagi’s dismembered hand to wipe his shaft clean, before dropping it unceremoniously onto the floor, like a prop, as well as the section of the rosary beads he had been holding with his other hand.

_Are you satisfied now?_ Nagi wants to ask, if he weren’t so exhausted and focused on his own stilted breathing. What had just happened to him didn’t seem real- and if he could just be left alone right now, there was no doubt that he’d try to repress it. He’s so overcome with the sheer degree of how much he doesn’t want to acknowledge what just happened to him, that even the sensation of Genkaku’s eyes still on him becomes more easily ignorable with his sympathetic subconscious.

Worse has been done to him before; this too shall pass. Though, the line between coping and fracturing is undistinguishable right now, and he doesn’t really know which side of that line he’s on. 

The numbness starting to settle in him is thick, and when he feels unwanted hands gripping his upper arms and start to drag him away from his rooted spot, he finds it more difficult than usual to at least resist internally- even though he hadn’t wanted to be touched again so soon.  

Any moment now he’ll hear the entrance of the Undertaker HQ slide open and be handed over to the pair of white, faceless guards probably standing outside. Where he then can be taken to his cell in G-block and remain in a stupor of self-hatred for the next few days- that was the plan here, right? Genkaku had his fun, but now it’s over.  

Or so he had hoped. Instead of catching the click of the door, he hears the smooth sound of leather being disrupted underneath him. A few delayed seconds pass before Nagi realizes that he’s been thrown onto the couch. One of the pillows he’d landed on is readjusted by hands that weren’t his own to support his head and neck, and the arms that return around him are, irrevocably, the most disturbing kind of tender Nagi had ever had the displeasure to experience. In a few indescribable ways it’s worse than what just happened minutes ago. 

Nagi’s stomach lurches with the combination of fear and drugs wreaking havoc inside him, and the potent queasiness makes him break out into a cold sweat. It suddenly occurs to him that Genkaku could have overdosed him. 

“I-I’m going to throw up…” Nagi warns, faintly, squirming away from the thin frame moving to pin him onto the cushions as much as he is able to. 

Genkaku laughs at him as if his panic was an attempt to be endearing, and gives a brief, gentle pat to the other’s abdomen. “Haha! I wouldn’t recommend it!” 

Then the monk moves so quickly that he almost didn’t know what was happening. Genkaku descends on him, pulling him in by the hair so that he can attack Nagi’s slack mouth with a series of ravenous kisses. Relentless, enthusiastic, awful.  

Genkaku gnashes at his abused lips hard enough to snag his own flesh on Nagi’s teeth, and begins to bleed out of the livid cut. Though, rather than letting that deter him, it seems to get him even more excited, a demented grin carving itself out on the Undertaker’s face. Nagi can taste the iron of it in his mouth, pooling with the disgusting mixture of saliva and remnants of semen. He almost gags by the time Genkaku finally pulls back, smearing some of the red on Nagi’s pale cheek.

Drool spreads on his face as the man kisses his forehead and eyelids and cheekbones, almost suffocating because Genkaku gives him little chance to breathe. And in the fractioned seconds that he can, the air he gasps in is stale from the monk’s cigarette breath. Calloused hands are all over Nagi, feeling him up through his clothes.

The scarf around Nagi’s neck is pulled loose and dropped onto the floor, and as Genkaku’s hand moves to the earth-toned one around his waist to do the same, Nagi panics and tries to stop him.

“Not that one!” He pleads, managing to not jumble the words too badly which makes him feel less unhappy about showing a weakness so readily to the other man. The impassive look on the redhead’s face makes him add an additional ‘please.’

Genkaku scoffs and continues undoing the knot despite his request. “You can have it back later if you still want it.”

There’s little room for an objection when Genkaku smoothes his wide palms over Nagi’s chest, pushing the thin, dark fabric of his shirt all the way up to his collarbone and helps himself to his torso- nipping and sucking bruises all over his feverish flesh.

He rubs here and kisses there and bites all the spots that look like they hurt the most, and Nagi can’t help but turn into a quivering, guilty disarray. His own shame at reacting to the other’s touch smothers him almost as forcefully as Genkaku’s torturously eager kisses that stamp out any attempts for air with heady exhales of stale tobacco and carbon dioxide. This had to be what dying felt like; the first groan was like having his vocal chords ripped out again.

But to Genkaku, the sound of Nagi’s moans in his ear are beautiful, and he forces himself to lean back and admire his handiwork. The sight that greets him ignites a euphoria better than any high he’s ever experienced. Nagi never looked so messed up even half-beaten at the Carnival Corpse. 

The fond look he gives Nagi must have struck a nerve because he catches him starting to blink rapidly, the beginnings of tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Genkaku’s never been so hard. 

“You really were never meant for Scar Chain. You look so much better like this, Owl.”

And as heartfelt as his compliment is, Nagi rejects it vehemently. “You’re foul and disgusting, get _off_ of me.”

“Cute.”

The way he rubs his fingertips around the splotchy bruises scattered over Nagi’s ribs wrings out a pretty, staggering gasp from his bird. Even with the narcotic cocktail, there’s so much hate simmering in those tired, brown eyes. Hatred at Genkaku, of course, and even more towards himself. There was hatred towards everything, burning dangerously like stoked coals. Never had Genkaku seen a vision so rapturous since the carnage this one wrought two years ago. He wanted to lean right in and kiss the wet surfaces of those eyes, to let his tongue drag from tear duct to tear duct. 

“Join Undertaker, Owl.” He asks, though it’s obvious what the answer will be.

“I’d rather die-” is managed between uneven inhales. 

When his eyes wander down to Nagi’s limp right arm laying there so _so_ docile beside him, despite how much Genkaku knew that he wanted to end his life right then and there, he just felt so incredibly giddy.

He would have chopped it off to match Nagi’s other stump if it wouldn’t have hindered rather than helped him with fulfilling his fantasies of genocide one day. A murderous and equally capable Owl beside him. Nagi needed one more push off the edge to make him more workable- and he knew exactly how to get him there.

A long moment passes that’s filled with nothing other than the both of them regarding each other- Nagi because there’s nothing else he can really do, and Genkaku because he has the odious knowledge of this moment’s significance. 

This is a last. 

This is the last time Nagi will be like this, so resistant and endearingly naive. Which is sad in a vague sort of way, except that what he will become is going to be so much better, and so very _meant to be_. Death is rebirth, death is beauty- and part of Nagi is dying tonight.

Genkaku isn’t so sentimental though that he would actually hesitate to cease his admiring in favor of pulling the deadman onto his lap, Nagi’s back to his chest and absent-limbed like a rag doll. He would have fallen off balance if the other man wasn’t there to restrict him and keep him in place. He can still feel Genkaku’s cum drying on his face and sticky in his hair. 

Nagi can sense the man calmly breathing behind him, chest expanding and contracting subtly against his shoulder blades. It would have been soothing if not for the unavoidable fact that this was Genkaku, and that everything is too warm, he’s thirsty, and his eyelids are burning.

“Owl, I’m going to show you something real good so no blacking out, okay?” Nagi’s silence was taken as an assent once Genkaku took hold of his face and angled it back enough to confirm that the brunet’s eyes were indeed open.

His jaw is released, drooping back to face forward again, and Genkaku reaches over to grab something laying in one of the more shadowy parts of the sofa. Nagi hears plastic against skin, and when Genkaku presses it, the wall of television screens in front of them all turn on one-by-one like a series of matches, giving off a dim, sterile light. Some of the screens are white noise, others are only a baseline lit black- the largest screen in the center, however, depicts the familiar setting of the DW labs in a crystal clear monochrome. There’s a slab in the center, with a blurry body laying on top of it. There isn’t any sound.

Nagi can feel the temperature of the room drop several degrees when his eyes linger to the time stamp at the bottom right of the screen. Two years ago.

The security camera that’s filming readjusts, refocuses, and Nagi’s worst fear is mercilessly confirmed. That’s his wife on the table, figure naked and inert. Acrid vomit rises up his throat. 

Her skin is completely devoid of its former sun-kissed hue, now a porcelain pale, and there are dark circles cusping her closed eyes. Any additional color is provided by the angry, horizontal scar above her uterus. Now both of them are scarred and tired looking with corpse-like complexions. Nagi wants to cry.

The memory of his wife’s perfume is clouded with the phantom recollections of formaldehyde and the scent of Genkaku’s sweat behind him, of the faint, fragrant oil kept at his macabre shrine. 

“Why are you...showing me this?”

Genkaku snickers quietly in his ear then shushes him. “Just watch." 

Nagi is about to protest some more, but the hand steadying his waist pinches hard enough to bruise as a warning. He’s forced to continue watching, and each second makes the hairs at the back of his neck raise and is marked by the rhythmic tapping of musician fingers at his hipbone. 

Then, there’s a hub of static at the side of screen that quickly gains more definition as it saunters towards the dead woman in the middle. Red and black and silk and **leather**. 

“This was two weeks after I killed her. They had pumped her full of special, secret stuff to keep her fresh. But there wasn’t much of her Tamaki needed for research other than that slimy little fetus, you kno-” He’s cut short by a degree of thrashing and yelling that was, at this point, not anticipated. 

_“Where is my child?!”_ Chemical-blown pupils were now needle points. A sharp elbow winds back to hit the monk square in the ribs and it almost hurts. 

Genkaku asserts an arm around Nagi’s neck and squeezes it in the crook of his own elbow. “Don’t pretend that you don’t fucking know already, Owl.” A flicker of test tubes and an umbilical cord flash helter-skelter in Nagi’s head. “Anyway, before they chopped her up into a bunch of jar-sized bits, I had a request put in.”

He catches the videotape Genkaku grinning at him, giving a brief, carefree wave to the camera. Nagi’s heart was beating so rapidly it felt as if it was going to burst. 

“I never saw such a lonely looking corpse, mind-numbingly ordinary though, Owl. I would have let her be carted off towards the morgue if I hadn’t seen your carnage.” Slanted images of intestines being flung at a row of lockers, lungs torn open by his fingernails. “Knowing you had fucked her...was so very tempting. I wanted to feel you more than anything, but you were in solitary for such a _long time_.”

The shock is so overwhelming that it takes him a while to realize that Genkaku is grinding up into his ass through his pants. The arm around his neck returns back to clutch at his hip, but he can’t move to stop him and is too gone to try now. Genkaku just gets harder as he ruts against him, then reaches with his other hand to grope roughly between Nagi’s legs. His wife is being touched onscreen too, hands are cupping her breasts and lingering along her stomach and thighs.

It’s so quiet now, and all he can hear his own hoarse breathing, the barest pained breath amplified into audibility from his voice box, and the hungry, needy hums Genkaku makes as he sucks on his neck- then dangerously close enough to his ear canal to make Nagi flinch in aversion. 

The sound of Genkaku undoing his zipper cuts the air like a knife and sears his nerves with an electricity that bolts from his tailbone all the way up under his arms and to the bones at the back of his neck. Genkaku strokes at the crotch of Nagi’s jeans placatingly, palming the growing erection there. _When did he become so twisted?_  

Genkaku laughs admiringly, and nuzzles right behind Nagi’s ear. “See? You really are fucked up, Owl.”

He shouldn’t make it sound like a compliment.

The monk loosens Nagi’s pants as well and guides them down and out of the way, taking his underwear with it. The Genkaku on this side of the screen positions himself against Nagi’s hole, while the one at the other mounts his wife. 

Nagi’s voice is gone. He can’t find it in himself to beg for all of this to stop, _please shut it off_ ; it’s just like that day years ago in the arena. He couldn’t even say her name. 

Genkaku can feel the once dignified man tremble in his arms. _Wow, precious._ Breaking him is incredible as long as it’s only he that gets to do it. Nagi’s weakness is lovely as long as it’s only him that gets to see it. 

Genkaku spits into his palm and coats his shaft as much as he can with the meager fluid. 

The first thrust inside borders unendurable and tears into him in a rough slide. Genkaku doesn’t get that far in, and he braces himself with a firm grip on Nagi’s sides and  closes his teeth around the skin at the back of his neck, bites it possessively. Owl’s agony bursts out of his mouth all at once in a loud, desperate cry that trails off into a pathetic, scratched whimper.

There’s no numbing this, there are no distractions except for the screen- which is as equally tormenting as his rape if not worse.

The Genkaku on the screen has his wife pulled closer over to the edge of the table he’s standing by, one waxy, stiffened leg framing each side of his hips. That Genkaku fishes something out of his pocket; a small, packed square. A condom. The man looks at it for a few tense seconds, and Nagi hopes beyond hope that there was at least that tiny bit of a reprieve. _Please. At least let him have…_

Videotape Genkaku shrugs and discards the contraceptive, instead forcing his way inside of her. Skin on skin. And that same flesh was inside of him now and-

**He felt as if he was going to vomit.**

The realization that Genkaku is starting to fuck him in time with the thrusts into his wife onscreen, that they’re being violated together by this disgusting excuse of a man is enough to make his stomach clench dangerously. Hearing the wet, squelching noises from the Undertaker fucking his way inside him, over and over again, is what sends him over the edge.

_“Hurgh-”_

Genkaku is quick enough to realize the warning, choking sounds for what they are and quickly claps a hand over Nagi’s mouth before he could throw up all over himself. Nagi is able to inhale furiously through his nose to keep from suffocating, but only barely. 

He swallows the bitter bile back down, abused throat muscles convulsing, and then his stomach just goes still and gives up. Genkaku notices him going soft again and uses his free hand to wrap around Nagi’s length to pump it back to a semblance of arousal.

Once Genkaku senses that Nagi’s not going to react in any other undesirable ways, he lets go of the man’s mouth and wraps an arm around his waist, lifting him up so that his thrusts could penetrate him deeper still. So that his pace could increase enough to make Nagi freeze up in pain at the new, ghastly angle. He could feel every inch of the other’s cock inside him, filling him, broad and invasive. 

“C’mon, say hello sweetheart. Didn’t you miss her?” 

Nagi doesn’t want to look at her or what Genkaku is doing to her. He doesn’t want to feel a thing, but the monk is coaxing him along through this nightmare, purring mocking, saccharine insults into his ear. 

He wants to laugh. Is this what it takes to get himself off now after his years spent celibate and alone? Any touch would do? 

But if he laughed then he would cry, and he’s so tired of crying so he just focuses on the pain and the man anchoring him through it. And amid the distraction of bruises and aching and bleeding, there’s lust- white hot and rising.

Genkaku’s fingers are raw and rough on his dick, stroking him too fast and too inconsiderately but Nagi can’t think anymore. The room is filled with the harsh, slapping sound of the priest fucking him, and Genkaku’s grunting into his skin, and his own pained, half-formed noises- tinged with tin from the mechanism inside his throat. Nagi lets his head hang down. He can’t look anymore, he doesn’t want to be himself anymore.

He cums into Genkaku’s hand in an orgasm that feels more overwhelming than satisfying, abrupt like colliding into a brick wall; one moment that rattles his entire frame and sucks the soul out of him. Agonizing pain erupts in the pit of his stomach, the flurry of all-consuming horror and shame akin to having a knife twist itself into his abdomen. And then it quiets just as quickly as all feeling leaves him.

Genkaku follows soon after with a groan and a violent slam inside him, thrusting quickly as he releases his load inside Nagi. He rolls his hips up again, slowly riding out the delicious little shocks of pleasure. The monk crushes him flush against his chest and buries his face into the crook of the other’s neck. “Nagi...”

Not ‘Owl.’ 

When Nagi looks up, the TV screens all feature varying states of blank now, and he’s grateful that he didn’t have to see the end of the clip. Genkaku finally pulls out, and Nagi can feel the mixture of blood and semen dribble out of him, and, to his dull horror, he doesn’t feel more ill for it. 

The Undertaker lowers them both down to lay on the cleaner side of the couch. Rustling, a slide, and Genkaku faces him again with a cigarette between his fingers. His other hand is gently rubbing the side of Nagi’s face, and the look Genkaku’s giving him is dark and unreadable. Twin, blue shadows.

“You’re a killer and your child is dead.” And I just made you cum onto your stomach like a hormonal teenager. Rape? Like they would believe that. “You can never go back to them after this.”

More pain, it doesn’t end. But it’s true, so Nagi nods once- shaky and unsure. 

“Good, you belong here.” And Genkaku kisses his forehead and slips the cigarette into his own mouth with a content sigh, then lights it. Nagi watches Genkaku watch him, before and after the match is blown out, and keeps watching as the monk presses their lips together and exhales smoke. Nagi opens his mouth to receive it and returns its wispy remains back to the space between them. Genkaku smiles. 

“I feel like writing a song,” he imparts, sitting up as Nagi rolls onto his side and hugs himself.

Genkaku waits long enough that Nagi has to ask, “What will you name it?” And the man lifts his guitar from where it had leaned against the couch.

“Despair.”


End file.
